The art of listening

As I practiced yesterday, I was struck by how much of what I call 'practice' is really just figuring out what to listen for. The inner voices, the way one chord leans into the resolution of another. It's easy to just get drawn in by soprano line - the melody. Our ears have been trained to do so, through years of conditioning.

But what about the counter-melodies? What about the harmony? What about the bass line - that foundation upon which everything else rests and resonates?

There are very few instruments that can play multiple lines of music at once. Mine is one of them. And of course, with that immense gift comes the enormous responsibility of caring for each individual line. It is, indeed a blessing and a curse to be given both melody and harmony. Managing both simultaneously is a tall order for a mere ten fingers. Indeed, it takes years of practice to develop the ability to bring out different lines at different times - to find the balance between them.

We have a term for that attempt at balance: voicing.
My last teacher was determined that I would never, ever play a chord that was not properly voiced. And I still hear her voice in my head as I sit in the practice room each morning.

But voicing is the end result. The goal.

The first step is listening.
Finding each individual line. Studying its contour.
Singing it, internalizing it, letting it become a part of me.
Appreciating how it relates to and interacts with the lines around it.

I have to know each line independent of the others in order to understand how they relate to each other.
And there are no shortcuts for that.
Listening takes time. It takes intentionality. It takes openness.

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I am taking a history class right now - a historical research class, to be precise. And this week, we have begun our exploration of different 'subfields' of history - which are essentially different filters through which we interpret or even begin to form our narrative of past events.

We have been taught to use these subfields as a means of finding other voices. Of telling stories that have been ignored. Of questioning our preconceived ideas about 'facts.' Not in an attempt to deny the existence of the truth, but rather, in an attempt to find the whole truth.

What if the story you have been told is only part of a bigger story?

Or, to put it in musical terms: what if the part of the song you know is only the alto part?
Is the alto part a true, integral part of the whole? Of course it is. But have you listened to the tenor line? What does your alto line sound like in the context of the whole? Do you realize that there's a whole orchestra behind you? Could it be that the song is actually completely different than what you assumed it to be?

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And so it is with people.

The daily interactions I have with students, colleagues, strangers, do not even begin to tell me the whole story. I hear one line, one phrase - and I am quick to jump to conclusions. I make assumptions about who these people are, about what they are thinking, about what their motivations are. But these little snippets of melodies cannot express the whole of the person.

So, I become a student of the score. I sing these individual lines in my head, let them resonate in me. I seek out other lines, and I find them in body language, in the breath, in the syntax of the sentence, in the gleam of the eyes. I listen for the unspoken message, the one that lies between the lines. I listen for the person. I listen for the Divine.

here's to the mess we make

Today I marched.

We came armed with instruments: a banjo, a jingle fish, a frog rasp, some spoons, and our voices. And we sang the whole way.

I was reminded of one who went before us. I had the honor of sharing the stage with him once, albeit not in the traditional sense. He shuffled up to the podium in his tweed coat, and glanced back at the sea of graduates behind him on the stage. There was joy in his eyes, as he paused to take us all in, a new generation of musicians, ready to raise our voices. And in that moment, I felt the mantle pass.

His remarks were simple and brief.
"If there is a human race here in a few hundred years, I think one of the few things to save it from its own foolishness will be the arts."

And so we carried his mantle today. We stepped out as artists and did what we do best. For the better part of an hour, we sang the words that he made famous (he did so together with his banjo that "surrounded hate and forced it to surrender").

Finding myself the caller, I started with his verses. We shall overcome. We'll walk hand-in-hand. We are not afraid. We shall live in peace. But as we continued to sing, new words poured from my lips. We shall live in hope. We shall be the light. We shall speak the truth. We shall live in joy. We shall live in love. I will stand with you. We shall overcome.

Others chanted. Some cheered. Many carried signs. And we sang on.

Gathering at the end of the march, we welcomed the crowd with our music. We circled up, and our numbers began to grow, our sound multiplying as more voices joined our ranks.

Truth be told, I did not agree fully with everyone that I marched with. But honestly, that was the beauty of it. I don't have to agree with you to love you, to stand with you...

...or to sing with you.

See, there's something about music, about singing, in particular. It shatters your defenses, and brings unity in a way that few things can. There is something about raising our voices together in song. There is something other-worldly about it. There is something heavenly about it.


This week, I made my annual appearance at a movie theater and saw La La Land. It had been billed to me as one of those "every-artist-needs-to-see-it" kind of films, though I honestly didn't know much about it. I think I was expecting it to be a feel-good-Hollywood-ending kind of experience. What I got was a journey through the war of art.

I found myself tearing up many times throughout the film, the conversations and experiences of the characters resonating so deeply with my own life experience. But what finally sent the tears flowing was the scene in which one of the characters is trying to get the other to come back for one more audition...probably her one-thousandth. The two argue a bit, and he finally says, "Why won't you do it?"

"Because it hurts too much."

In the scene that follows, she sings a song that traces her journey as an artist.

A bit of madness is key to give us new colors to see 

Who knows where it will lead us?
And that's why they need us

So bring on the rebels 

The ripples from pebbles 

The painters, and poets, and plays 

And here's to the fools who dream 

Crazy, as they may seem 

Here's to the hearts that break 

Here's to the mess we make

It is indeed messy in my studio. The floor is littered with wrong notes and failed phrasings and tears. I spent awhile crying with Mozart this week. I may have yelled at Schubert a time or two. I fought some battles in myself, even just getting myself to that bench to begin with...let alone keeping my butt planted on it for any length of time.

But here's to the mess. Because today in that crowd of people, I knew for myself, This is what I can do. This is what I must do. Because Pete was right: we need those crazy artists and the foolish dreamers. Because it's hard to argue with each other when you're singing together.